


Back to the war

by TeddyTR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyTR/pseuds/TeddyTR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This war is the cruelest he'd ever had to face. He fights through every day so he could get up on the next one. The soldier in him doesn't fail. He manages...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to the war

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, but these wild, sorrowful Reichenbach-feelings need to get out guys!

_There is no sound on the streets. John knows it’s not right. Suddenly, there’s something slippery under his shoes. He blinks. Blood. Blood flows slowly. The asphalt grows crimson. “Goodbye John.” His arm reaches out instinctively. He is shouting, but he has no voice. There is so much blood. And no sound. No pulse._

 

John wakes with a start. It’s different from the war-dreams. No sweat, no screaming. Just _silence_. His whole body is a trembling ache and nothing more. He has no tears. He has no voice. He has nothing.

 

“Honey?”

 

It’s Mary. Like always, John is surprised by her presence.

 

“Fine.” It’s hardly pronounced.

 

He lies back and stares at the ceiling. There is _nothing_ …

 

***

 

John doesn’t cry. He’s checking for the pulse, waiting for Lestrade, shouting with Mycroft, arranging the funeral, picking the gravestone, carrying the coffin and he doesn’t cry. Then, at the grave, he almost does. Almost. He touches the cool black stone and something brakes. _Back to the war, John,_ he tells himself.

 

***

 

This war is the cruelest he’d ever had to face. He fights through every day so he could get up on the next one. The soldier in him doesn’t fail. He manages.

 

He can’t go back to the flat though. It would surely beat him.

 

He can’t go back, but he can’t bear the thought of some other people entering there either. That flat carries everything that’s left of him. If it were to be tainted or gone, John’s afraid he would just disappear. Fortunately, Mycroft is more than willing to fulfill his wish. “ _You’ve done so much for my brother. It’s the least I can do to return the favor.”_

So the flat waits.

 

John realizes he has nothing left to wait for.

 

***

 

He will never understand Mary.

 

It was crystal clear from the beginning that he was half (or even less) of a man. He even told her. Told her that he just wanted to run, to get away. And she was fine with it.

 

Mary was kind and soothing. She kept silent about the nightmares, the wordless days and the fact that John never smiled at her. In fact, he never smiled. She was just there.

 

And John felt a strong emotion, first time in a while. He felt self-loathing. Because he didn’t really care about Mary and she would have deserved it. A little gentleness in return. Or a tear at her funeral.

 

John felt like a black hole. And he didn’t even care anymore. He carried enough coffins.

 

“Where will you go now?” Asked some unknown relative or friend after the ceremony. John remained silent for a moment.

 

“Home.” He said at last. “I’ll go home.”

 

***

 

He stands in front of the door. It’s harder than he thought. He is blank. Numb. His arm reaches out and he winces. He reaches out just like… _The war, John, don’t forget the war._

 

He opens the door and steps in. The flat is full of boxes. The corridor stares at him lifelessly. When his eyes meet with a smile on the wall, he turns his head quickly.

 

Even though all the familiar things are in boxes, and no sound or smell is left to trigger memories, John feels a small, fragile piece of him let out a shaky sigh. A breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

“I’m home.”

 

***

 

John sorts the boxes. In one corner go the ones he can’t touch just yet. He unpacks the few remaining ones. Kitchen wares, pillows, the kettle.

 

He doesn’t sit in his armchair. It is positioned to be in front of the other one. There’s no point sitting there now, when no one is… He sits on the sofa. He stares blankly at the room.

 

_What do I do now?_

 

***

 

He stands in the corridor. Two bedrooms gawp at him. He is indecisive. He steps in his. The room is soulless. Empty. Hollow. He can’t bear it. He stumbles into the other one. He drops his duvet and falls into the bed that’s way too big for him…

 

***

 

In the morning, John Watson cries for the first time in two years. It is the good, old-fashioned crying, with all the sobs and chokes and screaming. He holds a teacup in his hands all along. The teacup he put on the table without even noticing the movement. The teacup he prepared for no one…

 

***

 

He doesn’t cry again.

 

Slowly, very slowly he unpacks the boxes. One by one, as months fly by.

 

Some of them are surprisingly easy. Others, like the one containing the skull, seem to be ripping his insides out. _War injuries,_ John tells himself and he continues to unwrap the fragments of a life he lost. Of _the_ life he lost.

 

***

 

One day he finds the violin. He doesn’t dare to touch it first. Then, gently, very gently he lifts the instrument and puts it under his chin. The bow pokes out clumsily from his hand, which is way too rough and way too small. He tries to pull an A. It sounds horrible. _Obviously._ John laughs for long minutes. It hurts.

 

***

 

It’s just another, typical Saturday. He goes to the store, buys some bread, milk, sugar, oranges, and carries them home in a paper basket. These automatic actions are easy for him. His weekend is full of them. Because on weekends, he has too much free time…

 

Merely seconds after opening the door of 221B, his instincts say something is different. It’s a small, subtle sensation, but it alerts John’s mind immediately. Old days’ practice. Mere three seconds after stepping in and he is scanning his surroundings for anything that’s out of order.

 

There _is_ something out of order.

 

The paper basket crashes loudly, milk spilling, oranges running in every direction. There is another sound, from upstairs, but John is not listening. All of his attention is focused on a long, dark coat. It’s hanging so casually in the hall; like that spot is its usually owned place. John realizes that _it is indeed_.

 

Another two seconds and various thoughts start to circulate in his mind. _This is not real. I’m dreaming again. Oh please not that dream again._ He can’t help reaching out. His fist closes on the thick fabric. Way too familiar. _A dream can’t be this cruel,_ he thinks, _only reality can._

 

“I’m going mad.” He whispers the only possible explanation to himself.

 

“No John. You’re not.”

 

John doesn’t even jump at the voice. He felt stared at moments ago. He just couldn’t turn. He’s not sure he can now.

 

He would like to drop dead. Here, now, on this very spot. He wishes it would end. _But you have to fight, John. Soldiers fight._

 

He doesn’t let go of the coat as he turns. He thinks that if he lets go, he’ll fall into a hole and he’ll never get out again. He lifts his gaze and look at the person standing on the stairs.

 

Air stuck in his lungs. _Keep it cool, John._ He tries and fails to breathe. The figure moves, slowly approaching him.

 

“John, I…”

 

“Let me… let me make this clear.” John pulls his soldier tone. The only one he got left. And now even this has cracks in it.

 

“I’m not dreaming.”

 

The figure shakes his head.

 

“Not hallucinating?”

 

“No.”

 

“Didn’t go mad?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Well, that’s very unfortunate.”

 

The figure frowns. “Why?”

 

“Because it leaves us only one possibility. In which you, _Sherlock Holmes_ , are alive and _somehow_ you forgot to inform me about that condition.”

 

“John, I-“

 

Sherlock couldn’t finish the sentence as the rough fist of a soldier collided with his highly admired cheekbones.

 

***

 

“Here, let me put some ice on it.”

 

Sherlock hisses. “It hurts!”

 

“ _It’s supposed to_!” John literally throws an icepack on him, then, he sits back into his armchair. Sherlock can’t stop examining him, noting every single thing his brain can manage. And that’s a lot of things. He doesn’t know how to even start handling this situation.

 

“You’ve lost weight.”

 

John’s eyes snap at him. They’re angry, of course they are, but something is missing. Normally, John is not angry, he’s _furious_. There is no fire in his frown now. Just weariness. It’s unfamiliar and alarming.

 

“Yeah, I didn’t have an appetite, _wonder why_.” Dripping sarcasm. So not John.

 

“John, please, listen-“

 

“No, no thank you. I listened to you long enough; I can make my own deductions now. So let’s introduce the theories, shall we? Number one: Because of some unthinkably important mission, you had to run off and in the heat you forgot the send a text of ‘hey I didn’t die’ or something.”

 

“John-“

 

“Number two: You’ve finally grew unbearably bored of me so you thought this is the most convenient way to leave me behind and follow your dreams.”

 

“My God, you can’t thin-“

 

“Number three.” John takes a deep breath before continuing. “You decided to bring Moriarty’s network down and out of some totally incomprehensible reason you thought it would be better if I didn’t help you.”

 

Silence sits heavy between them. John’s face softens into something heartbreakingly sad.

 

“No, Sherlock.” He barely whispers. “ I was hoping number one…”

 

Sherlock breaks for a thousandth time in the last three years. “It was to protect you.” He says and suddenly it sounds like an utterly foolish excuse. “They almost… John you’ve almost got killed. And it wasn’t for the first time and I couldn’t…”

 

“You know” John says quietly. “It’s sad. I thought you gave me more credit.”

 

Sherlock stares stunned. There is no man on Earth to whom he gives more credit. John sees his confusion and explains.

 

“I can make decisions on my own, you know. I don’t need your patronizing. You think I’m a fool? You think I didn’t know from the start what kind of lifestyle I’m getting myself into?”

 

“I-“ The words are lost somewhere in his throat. Sherlock slowly realizes that under the influence of the overwhelming worry he might have made a fatal mistake.

 

“I _adored_ it, Sherlock. I adored the rush, the games, I adored living here. With you. Didn’t you know?”

 

 _I did_ , Sherlock thinks. _Oh God, I did know._ “But I couldn’t do it, John. I’m sorry, I know it was selfish of me, but I just couldn’t.”

 

“Couldn’t do what?”

 

“Lose you.”

 

John stares at him for what it feels like ages. “Neither did I.” He whispers and Sherlock wants to answer ‘you didn’t’, but he is unable to form the words.

 

There is silence. For the first time in three years, it’s not an empty one.

 

***

 

They stand in the door of Sherlock’s room.

 

“Well, that’s a bit awkward” John coughs “but I’m afraid I used your bedroom.”

 

“No, it’s absolutely fine.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t miss the wince John gives to his own room. “And” He adds rashly “you’re free to continue using it.”

 

Silence.

 

“You mean…?”

 

“Yes, precisely.”

 

The argument is visible on John’s face. One last glance at his own room and his features grow tired. He looks up at Sherlock.

 

“If it’s not a problem.” It sounds like a plea.

 

“No it’s…” Sherlock looks into those weary, warm eyes and says “Truth to be told, I don’t want be alone either.”

 

The corners of John’s mouth almost, a _lmost_ turn up, which Sherlock stores as the biggest victory of the day.

 

The bed is very big and comfortable. Everything is. There’s a pulse again.

 

They lie awake, enjoying the mere closeness of the other. Beyond all guilt and anger, they both feel like breathing fresh air again after a long time of choking.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Just for the record. I won’t fight next time.”

 

Sherlock frowns and turns his head to meet John’s eyes. They hurt.

 

“What I mean is… I can’t… no, I _won’t_ fight again. If I’m left alone one more time…” _I will just lie down and die. Willingly and peacefully, like a good soldier._

Sherlock can read his mind. He can read it all too well. He swallows down some tears and draws John into a tight embrace.

 

“Understood.”

 


End file.
